User blog comment:Brigadier Barty/Red Tables/@comment-3135907-20150213202022/@comment-3135907-20150227031757

Tweng grinned at Zkau as a new mood and idea suddenly entered his strange mind. He once again fastened the chain around her neck to a strong oaken post in the ground. "Cummon you lot. We'll go to yore gran'ma's fer a nice long stay, Shinnkl." The rat named Shinnkl giggled. "Gramma's place, aye? Do ye mean it, sir?"

"Aye, I mean it. Gittup, cummon, we ken git all this junk o' yourn next week when we comes back 'round 'ere!" The mixed Painted Ones were halfway out of the camp when a rat named Groej held up a claw. "Worrabout da' Zuunjusker fsir?"

"We'll git 'er in a week, too." Behind them in the camp, Zkau moaned in fear. A week in this savage country, chained to a post? No chance of survival, no chance. Fates forbid a band of those wicked, bloodlusting, vermin-ravaging slayers, the spikefurs, might chance on this part of the woods. It would be a long, long, long death if that happened.